


Femslash: Beauty Sleep

by katekane



Category: Sleeping Beauty - Fandom, Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-27
Updated: 2010-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katekane/pseuds/katekane





	Femslash: Beauty Sleep

  
  
  
  
**Entry tags:**   
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[fairytale](http://katekane.livejournal.com/tag/fairytale), [femmeslash](http://katekane.livejournal.com/tag/femmeslash), [femslash](http://katekane.livejournal.com/tag/femslash), [lara croft](http://katekane.livejournal.com/tag/lara%20croft), [sleeping beauty](http://katekane.livejournal.com/tag/sleeping%20beauty), [tomb raider](http://katekane.livejournal.com/tag/tomb%20raider)  
  
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**Femslash: Beauty Sleep**  
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Beauty Sleep  


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](http://pics.livejournal.com/katekane/pic/00003s17/)

**TITLE** : Beauty Sleep

 **FANDOMS** : Sleeping Beauty, Tomb Raider

 **PAIRING** : Sleeping Beauty / Lara Croft (femslash)

 **RATING** : PG13

 **DISCLAIMER** : Anyone is entitled to reinterpret a fairytale, in accordance with the old oral tradition. Lara Croft, however, belongs to some media conglomerate – and I hereby beg them not to sue me for borrowing her.

 **SPOILERS** : None… Unless you never read fairytales.

 **SUMMARY** : The true story about the 13th fairy and why she wasn’t invited to the celebration of Sleeping Beauty’s birth – and about the ultimate kiss of love...

  


 

 **Beauty Sleep**

Of course she didn’t prick herself with a spindle on her sixteenth birthday. Parents basing the entire upbringing of their daughter on the principle of overprotection would never leave her unattended on a date with so many mythical connotations. Not that it would have made any difference what so ever. As everyone knows, life altering events always occur when you least expect them, and Sleeping Beauty’s life was turned upside down on an extraordinarily ordinary Thursday.

As to her age at the time, it suffices to say she was at the height of her beauty. And centuries of beauty sleep have not changed this. Motionlessly lying there, appearing as soft as the silk sheets swept around her, she is the oldest young girl in history and absolutely irresistible. No wonder what is finally about to happen, happens. If I was present I would kiss her myself. 

But as of yet, she is fast asleep. Perhaps she is dreaming. Perhaps letting her mind wander back to the day she finally met the thirteenth fairy, who had been kept successfully out of her life up until then. That is, she had in fact met the fairy once before. But her parents had told the story of the infamous feast so many times that Sleeping Beauty had eventually come to confuse it with her own memories. Not until she had practically grown up did she get a chance to hear and choose between two sides of the story.

The memory of the ordinary yet extraordinary Thursday, on the other hand, belongs to her and no one else. It seems likely that she still feels the hollow, slippery stone steps against her bare feet in her sleep; they seem to shudder ever so slightly as if recalling the winding staircase of the eastern tower. Someone had used its separate entrance that day and left the imprint of a hand on the dusty copper handle of the door leading to the chamber at the very top floor of the tower. Curiosity had made Sleeping Beauty try to fill out the contours of the stranger’s hand with her own princess fingers, but they were at least one inch too short, and instead she pushed down the handle.

 

The chamber behind the door had been anything but empty. Large mirrors with carved frames covered the entire back wall (assuming you can talk about “back walls” in a round room). The remaining walls were decorated with paintings that would undoubtedly have been deemed obscene by Sleeping Beauty’s contemporaries. Her young eyes would probably have dwelled on them, if they hadn’t been distracted by the remarkable woman standing in the middle of the room.

She was two heads taller than Sleeping Beauty, balancing on incredibly high heels under shoes as shiny as neatly polished royal carriages. The legs seemed to continue forever from there, but disappeared from sight under a feather-decorated skirt that was much too big and way too short at the same time. And yet almost discrete compared to the sequin-covered top, the pearl tiara on the high hair, and the silvery eyelids with the longest lashes Sleeping Beauty had ever seen. Just then, the eyes were opened and locked gaze with the puzzled Sleeping Beauty. The woman confirmed her inexplicable hunch before she had time to voice it: “I am in fact the thirteenth fairy, whom you have probably been warned against since your birth.”

 

The fairy offered Sleeping Beauty something to drink before an awkward silence could settle, and Sleeping Beauty happily accepted. She was handed a tall glass with fruit slices on the edge and colourful content. It tasted sweet and sharp at the same time and after a couple of mouthfuls Sleeping Beauty forgot her hesitation and asked the one question that had to be asked: “Why did you want me dead?”

”Dead?!” The shock nearly made the fairy spit into her drink. “Dear child, what exactly did they tell you about me?”

”That when you weren’t invited to the feast after my birth, you got your revenge by cursing me.”

”I may be a drama queen at times, but never _that_ dramatic, I assure you.” The fairy thoughtfully stroked a black swan boa biting its own tail just below the fairy’s large Adam’s apple. It jerked upwards as she swallowed. “Tell me, did they also explain to you _why_ I wasn’t invited?”

Sleeping Beauty shrugged. ”Something about the golden plates. They only had twelve.”

The fairy snorted. ”Have you ever counted them??”

Actually, she never had. But know that she thought about it her parents never seemed to be missing plates or cutlery for the endless number of predictable dinners with scheduled dances and attempts at hooking her up with the dreadfully boring prince from their neighbour country. It seemed highly unlikely that they could ever have been one plate short, and yet Sleeping Beauty had never questioned her parents’ explanation before. Their story had fused with hers, but a single question now seemed to drive a wedge in between the two. Sleeping Beauty, feeling slightly dizzy, sat down on the nearest golden chair. 

”Tell me the whole story,” she asked, and the fairy obeyed.

 

”Of course I never wished you any harm – I am your god mother, after all! I wanted only the very best for you: _Alternatives_. That’s why I showed up at the feast, even though your parents never invited me. I knew it hadn’t simply slipped their mind. Rather, it was the first of many attempts at ’protecting you’, as I believe they put it during our row that day. In reality it was above all their own royal reputation they were trying to protect against the influence of black family sheep like me. You parents were always hopelessly naïve trying to put off reality indefinitely. Children grow up to be themselves, regardless of their parents’ wishful thinking. In your case rather unimaginative parents, I’m afraid.”

Sleeping Beauty hadn’t stirred or uttered a single sigh during the fairy’s long speech. Now, however, the fairy went quiet and could no longer drown out the sentences beginning to take form in Sleeping Beauty’s mind. Separate and muffled at first, but eventually more like an ear-piercing cacophony. They were about spinning wheels burned in public throughout the kingdom. About life as a princess protected by guards and massive walls against a supposed death threat uttered long before Sleeping Beauty herself mastered language and had the ability to object. About tightly buttoned dresses and books balanced on a tamed hairdo. And about prince Boring from the neighbouring kingdom and his sticky gaze always giving Sleeping Beauty the urge to scream.

 _And why haven’t I?_ she suddenly, and for first time in her life, thought to herself. But the answer was simple: If she did in fact scream, it would be interpreted as royal female frailty and lead to even more guards and ground rules and attempts at getting her safely installed in a proper marriage. Her destination was a given. Her entire life as a princess was already laid out in front of her, and she had no say, could barely even influence the pace.

“Will things never change?” she desperately exclaimed, as she rapidly rose from the chair. There was a lump in her chest, a pressure spreading into her arms and legs, and she had to move them to be able to breathe.

”Yes,” the thirteenth fairy said, ”they will, in fact. But you’ll have to be patient.”

”Patient?” Some of the pressure immediately gave way to a more optimistic bubble of air in her abdomen. If there is a handful of things well-behaved princesses excel at, being patient is at the very top of that list. Just think of the amount of time it takes to tighten a corset!

”Yes, for approximately three to four centuries. Give or take a few years. Then lighter and more modern times will arrive.”

Sleeping Beauty bit her lip. Three hundred years was a long time. But so was five minutes if spent in prince Boring’s company. “If I wait… Are you absolutely certain things will improve?”

”Positive. We fairies take part in spinning the thread of time and can trace it with our fingertips for as long as we want. How else would I have found these fabulous outfits?”

The fairy gestured towards her own dress and several others stacked in colourful piles across a number of chairs. Sleeping Beauty curiously touched a dress made of completely transparent plastic, and eventually picked it up, urged by an encouraging nod from the fairy. The fairy turned her towards a large mirror enabling Sleeping Beauty to see her own reflection and the dress held up in front of her. She was fully dressed underneath it, but blushed none the less, and the fairy let out a surprisingly deep laughter at the sight.

”There is nothing wrong with you, dear girl. You were simply unfortunate enough to be born in the wrong century. But _that_ we can fix.”

 

And so it happened that Sleeping Beauty pricked herself with the one spindle, for years kept successfully hidden from her petrified parents by the thirteenth fairy. She pricked herself on purpose, because it was her best alternative (and alternatives _are_ the best) and voluntarily fell into a deep sleep that would last until better times had arrived.

She has waited for them ever since. Princesses are good at waiting, especially when they’re sleeping. And dreaming. She is moving again, ever so slightly, but more than she has done for half a century.

Perhaps she is slowly awakening?

 

* * * * *

 

”Where the hell am I,” she mumbles in upper-class English, biting her full lower lip.

Her title – not princess, but Lady – has had no apparent influence on her choice of wardrobe; rather, it meets the practical demands of an archaeologist and adventurer: A grey tank-top and obscenely skimpy shorts, the only bearable outfit in this tropical heat. Fingerless gloves, great for rock-climbing, cover her hands, the long, dark hair is braided. Two enormous pistols are fastened to her belt, just in case. At the moment she is carefully examining a compass and an old hand-drawn map.

It is of the utmost importance to Lara Croft that she finds the legendary castle before Alex West, her archrival. It is a matter of not just life or death. Something far worse is at stake: Her honour and reputation as a skilled treasure hunter.

 

The mountains around her are so overgrown with thorny bushes that they would appear like one undifferentiated green surface to most people, but Lara’s trained eye apparently finds what it seeks. In any case, she folds the map and put it and the compass in her back-pack with a content look on her face, before continuing straight ahead.

Her sense of directions has not failed her: Soon a castle appears in the middle of all the thorns, so suddenly it seems magic had something to do with it. Ivy and the hands of time have been hard on its facades and in a way made the castle merge with its wild surroundings, but its marvellous past is still obvious to anyone. And in Lara’s opinion, the withered bridge and large roof tiles blocking the front gate simply make the castle even more appealing, since they surely mean that she is the first person in centuries to enter it.

And to Lara, being number one is essential.

She hesitates in the oval courtyard. A priceless treasure is hidden somewhere in these ruins, according to a legend she herself translated from Sanskrit and accidentally told Alex, that jerk, about. But so far there is no trace of him, so hopefully it won’t pose a problem. Right now all she has to worry about is figuring out _where_ in this huge domicile the treasure is hidden.

”Where would I myself hide it…?” she mumbles, scanning her surroundings.

 _Well. Cellar window. Main entrance. Tower._ A smile widens across her face. The tower. Where else!

 

There are four towers, but Lara picks the eastern tower, because it is the tallest one. It has its own entance, a locked iron gate, and of course Lara has picked far more complicated locks than the ones produced in the 17th century. But since she is already wearing her gloves and brought all the equipment along, she decides to climb the tower on the outside, heading for a small window at the very top. It might be a little dangerous, but it is also much more fun and offers better suspense before she reaches the climax of her journey.

The treasure. It belongs to her the moment she crosses the windowsill, enters the tower through the window and lands on a dusty, but surprisingly intact marble floor. She has entered feet first with her back to the room itself, but even before turning around she can sense that something is out of order.

She is not alone. There is the scent of another human being, the breath of another person, very close by. Most people would not have noticed, but Lara has spent decades sharpening her senses, and now the disappointment hits her like a wave.

“Alex,” she whispers. Then louder, turning to face the room: ”Alex, you slimy weasel, I know you’re in here, so just give it up.”

 

Lara was right – she is not alone. On a round four-poster bed of carved rose tree a person is resting, swept in silk sheets. But it is most definitely _not_ Alex.

The fabrics cling closely to the unmistakably feminine form and really don’t leave much to the imagination, but Lara pulls the sheets aside anyway. _Science requires thorough observation_ , she tells herself, fully aware that science is not the driving force behind her actions right now. Her true motive becomes even more obvious when the sheets fall to the floor, revealing a young woman wearing only a completely transparent plastic dress, extremely misplaced in these rustic surroundings.

However, the dress is not what forces Lara to swallow hard. The chest beneath it moves regularly (and she is not observing it for medical reasons either), a calm pulse visible through the skin on the women’s neck. Pale skin, but the cheeks are gradually regaining colour, as Lara watches her. There’s a slight shudder under the woman’s eyelids. The hair is one big unruly pillow under her head. She is absolutely alive and irresistible.

Something in between a word and a sigh escapes the woman’s slightly parted lips in that instance, and finally Lara can no longer control herself. She kisses them.

 

  



End file.
